


By Any Other Name

by Sanalith



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanalith/pseuds/Sanalith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All names have power, especially his. But Belle is learning that her names might be just as strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

  
Names had power. She always knew that. But never was she so conscious of it as when he spoke.  
  
On normal days, when he was friendly and playful, she was the traditional “dearie.” In this persona, she was his housekeeper, his companion and – possibly – his friend. Dearie was for when she puttered around the estate with a feather duster, when she knelt on the rug before the fire and watched him spin, when she sat upon the table and swung her legs beneath her like a child.  
  
“Mind those cabinet tops, dearie,” he’d remind her with his gamine grin. “They’re always extra dusty!”  
  
“Tell us a story, dearie,” he’d urge at the dinner table, leaning back in his ornate chair. “Choose one of those musty books you’ve always got your nose in.”  
  
Dearie was comfortable. Relaxing. Normal.  
  
And then there were the dark days, when he was on edge and moody. His laughter was a bit too shrill, his eyes much too bright. She almost never knew what set him off, but on those days, he was his “Beauty.” He never raised his voice to her when angry, but instead lowered it to a deceptively mild croon, as he silkily caressed every syllable like a demon lover.  
  
“Watch for wee hungry beasties when you fetch straw from the cellar storeroom, my Beauty,” he’d murmur. “Wouldn’t want those lovely fingers nibbled off.”  
  
Or if she dared to make a joke to try to pull him out of his black mood, and he was having none of it, those too bright eyes would narrow and he’d lean into her space and whisper hotly, “Careful, my Beauty. Wouldn’t want to push us too far, would you? In this place, all words come with a price as high as magic.”  
  
She was never truly frightened as his Beauty, but she hated the distance it placed between them, the reminder that he was in fact a dark creature, a shadow who never truly revealed himself, and he had the power to destroy her without so much as a flick of his lace-covered wrist. And being not merely Beauty but HIS Beauty, as though he needed to emphasize his ownership of her, weighed on her shoulders. As much as she thought she knew him, these days reminded her that she didn’t. Not even close.  
  
She learned quickly to stay silent as his Beauty.  
  
But the days she longed for, the oh-so-brief times, were when she was simply “Belle.”  
  
Those days were so infrequent, but she treasured them all, playing them over and over in her mind as she did with her favorite stories. When she was Belle, there was a softness all about him that made her weak inside. He’d look at her with almost human eyes, speak with a gentle voice, even briefly - _so briefly!_ \- allow their fingers to touch as she passed him his tea in the chipped cup.  
  
She was hardly ever Belle during normal conversation. Instead, she received “Good morning, Belle!” when she met him with breakfast and the sun was shining through his now-open windows. If he was in a particularly happy mood at the dinner table, he’d greet her with a cheerful, “Good evening, Belle!” and a raised wine glass. And the ones she treasured most were those at the very end of the day, when they bid farewell for the night, and he would stop his spinning and give her an almost-smile and whisper, “Pleasant sleep, Belle.”  
  
She often had difficulty finding that sleep on those nights, but she always had _very_ pleasant dreams.  
  
“Belle” was always spoken with a smile. “Belle” made her heart flutter. Never before had her simple name been such a gift.  
  
She did her best to reciprocate, to show that she understood the importance of his naming her. He was a playful “my lord” as Dearie and a stiff “sir” as Beauty. And even if he did not notice this – though she couldn’t imagine he did not – she knew he _always_ noticed that he became Rumpelstiltskin when she was Belle. She could almost feel the tiny frisson of power, the slight tingle in the air when she spoke it aloud.  
  
All names carried power, but none more than his, and never so much as within his walls.  
  
And every now and then, when she went to sleep with her own name in her ears and his on her lips, she wondered what would happen if she gave him another name, one that had been rolling around on the tip of her tongue for weeks now. She’d gone with him to be a hero, but inside she was still the quiet, bookish princess, and somehow she needed to grow beyond that.  
  
 _~Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.~_  
  
So she’d wait. Wait for the time when that bravery didn’t fail her. Wait for the perfect evening when he would smile at her from behind his spinning wheel, his eyes soft and his voice gentle, and whisper, “Pleasant sleep, Belle.”  
  
And she would gather her courage and place her heart in her mouth and reply, just as softly, “Pleasant sleep, my love.”


End file.
